


there is no condemnation for those who belong to me

by Enaira



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: How Do I Tag, Loyalty, M/M, Mairon is stressed, Master/Servant, Melkor has insecurities, Smut, Trust Issues, Utumnobang, Vala/maia, Violence, angbang, but thirsty for Melkor, monster Melkor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:02:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27675764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enaira/pseuds/Enaira
Summary: Melkor came back from a business... hunting... eh, massive destruction trip. Meanwhile, Mairon had been sulking by the fireside.The Master is hungry (spoiler alert: not for food).
Relationships: Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon
Comments: 4
Kudos: 45





	there is no condemnation for those who belong to me

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write brainless smut (the equivalent of a one-night-stand for a writer). I failed. Five months later, here the result.
> 
> This is my first time writing a fanfic! owo  
> My first time writing in English!  
> My first time writing smut!!
> 
> English is not my native language. I’m sorry if the grammar is weird or the conjugation confusing sometimes. I’ll be happy to fix it if you notice me about it.
> 
> Hope you’ll enjoy it anyway.

In Utumno, where no ethereal light would ever shine upon the stronghold’s walls, one would never know if the sounds of rumbles were coming from a massive storm swirling in the tormented sky above, or from the depths of the never dormant fortress.

In a cold room, at the top of a tower carved in the mountain, Mairon was sitting in front of a fire, his ember eyes glowing with the reflection of the flames. He was not worried about the terrible sounds, even though they were exceptionally loud at this very moment. The walls were trembling from time to time – or it seemed, at last.

It was one of these hours, in a never-ending night, during which his mind, unable to focus on the matter at hands, seemed to be dragged against his will on memories he would like better to forget. Fire could not hurt him, but tonight the dancing flames in the fireplace were like firebrands to his eyes, and they reminded him painfully of times of innocence and celebration, dances and delights.

He did not regret anything. Once his mind was settled, Mairon had always made a point of honour to stay on track, loyal at least to himself. But, doubts! Doubts had always been gnawing, tiny insects on the back of his skull. How much he had doubted himself before his change of allegiance, and then during, and then after! Years of doubt had plagued him deeply, even long after he had joined his true lord.

It was not he did not trust Melkor or his ways. And for nothing in all Creation he would have gone back to his previous masters, to their frivolity and their indolence, like nothing was ever wrong in that perfect world of theirs. But when he had come to Utumno, and had discovered this stern, ugly valley of ice, and the fortress made of nothing but rocks and smokes, and its rampant creatures, he had just... wondered about his place in the big picture. And why Melkor had wanted him here. And why _he_ had wanted to be here.

Tonight was one of these bitter occasions, and his heart felt heavy, his thoughts as dark as the tortured ones he had back then, when he was a liar to all – including himself.

Despite the fire, he felt cold to his very bones, as fake as they were, and the fact annoyed him. He did not miss the Lamps, but he sure did miss warmth. So far, most of the time, he had stayed underground, busying himself in the forges, feasting on the heat emanating from the lava, resisting the urge to howl in frustration when he had to explain an Orc, for the thousandth times, how to melt iron and steel correctly. Usually, the pungent smell of Utumno’s tunnels, too, had his noise frowning in disgust. Up here, in this room open to the sky, the smell was better but the cold was merciless.

These were only minor annoyances, but tonight he could not shake them off, and it upset him.

He was not weak. He did not need heat or comfort. He could do this, and he would prove it. Because if he could not, what did that make him?

His ribcage felt constricted, as if his bones were made of a metal trapped against the anvil and the hammer, but not hot enough to adapt correctly. _Expectations_. The stakes had grown abruptly higher a few months ago, and he had been feeling unsettled since.

There were many Maiar and Valaraukar here, working towards the glory and the victory of the Black Vala. Competing with each other more than collaborating, for their Master’s favour. Somehow, Melkor inspired such behaviour. Great promises were made and greater rewards awaited his followers, if only they did their part, and met the Master’s expectations. Failing was not an option. Everyone knew that _displeasing_ Melkor was not something to look for.

Since he came at Utumno and pledged himself, Mairon had played the game and done his best, like all the others. But he had not been expecting the Master’s attention turning suddenly to him, nor that kind of _attention_.

The first time it had happened, he had felt dizzy afterwards. Like he had been through a precipice, and the experience had been terrifying. But his head had been spinning all day after that, and the goosebumps could not disappear, as if his skin had been crackling with residue energy. Shethotha had noticed his restlessness and her haughty cackling had been like a bucket of ice thrown at his head. She had been laughing and laughing, before going on her way, her tiny frame still shaken.

He knew why she had laughed, and she had been right.

Since then, he had felt crushed under expectations he could not meet. Not that Melkor had ever formulated them, or even implied them. He was as demanding as before – just not only about the war effort, now, and that was _flattering_. It could have been almost comfortable. Having this kind of attention. Yet…

Deep in his thoughts, Mairon did not hear the rustle of the curtain behind him, suddenly lifted, nor did he perceive the thickness of the night outside, heavy with ozone and snow. But then he noticed an unusual, abrupt silence, and he definitely _felt_ something just before the floor cracked. In an instant, he spun around, power irrigating his skin, ready to fight… and find himself face to face with a creature of scales and teethes, fresh blood splattering its huge body.

He relaxed.

His Master was standing there, in front of the exit, indifferent to the cold, in the _fana_ of destruction and terror he was fond of these days. This body was bigger than the usual one, and not very eldarin anymore. Its massive legs were standing on the digits, like beasts; the obsidian claws that ended them could have beheaded an ox without trying twice. The rest was only made of hard muscles and sharp lines; dangerous thorns pierced the broad shoulders, and the scales of onyx covering the skin were sometimes as large and edged as armour plates. A nervous tail swept the ground, slowly, like a snake endowed with its own will. From the claws of its legs to the fangs protruding from its lips, everything was made to be lethal and monstrous.

All of it looked terribly strong and efficient, made only for hunt and slaughter, ruin and carnage. Despite being familiar with this appearance, Mairon felt a stir of awe rose from the depth of his stomach, and then ran up along his spine. The damp scales were glistening even in the feeble light of the room.

To him, Melkor looked as beautiful as he was powerful.

“My Lord, you have returned”, he managed, in a remarkable display of intelligence.

The beast glanced back at Mairon, its eyes like beacons of a dark moon light. It was smirking. Realizing he was still staring, Mairon shook himself. In an effort of will, he tore himself away from the enthralling pupils – all steel and ice – and went to a small pedestal table, supporting a carafe and a glass.

“Would you care for a glass of wine, my Lord?” he asked, forcing his voice to be detached. “You must be thirsty.”

Without waiting for the answer, he began to pour the wine, its scent rough and spicy – a mix of iron and berries smells. Then he crossed the room to place the glass in the hand of his Master, strongly aware of the obsidian claws that ended the thick fingers, as they lightly grazed his.

“ _More hungry than thirsty_ ,” Melkor said in a deep, low growl, but he took the glass anyway and sipped it in all at once.

“Really? Then I should ask for some meat to satisfy your appetite, my Lord.”

“ _Won't be enough, little one. But fear not, for I came back with a more satiating prey_.”

With a step to the side, Melkor moved from the entrance to reveal the large corpse of one of Oromë's beasts, gory and sticky, lying outside on the rampart walk. Mairon blinked. The faint but distinct smell of iron in the air did not only come from the lightnings, then.

“ _Yet... I'm not interested in meat right now_ ,” Melkor continued, as his voice adopted the same velvety texture of the wine he had drunk.

Mairon tilted his head in a parody of innocence.

“Then what do you need, my Lord?”

Strong arms closed around Mairon’s back, drawing him confidently against hard flesh. Melkor lowered his head, enough to place his mouth a few inches from Mairon’s (and no, his fake heart did not skip a beat at that).

“ _Perhaps the matter is more about what you need, Mairon_ ,” the beast crooned against his lips, all smile and teethes. “ _Weren’t you brooding, here_ _?_ ”

This time, it _did_ skip a beat.

“Brooding, my Lord ? Not at all. I was merely thinking,” Mairon said carefully, as he refrained himself from stepping back and locked his arms around his Master's neck instead. “About the on-going works on your new fortress.”

Piercing cold eyes focused on him, slowly going through every angle of Mairon’s face.

“ _Should I change back_?” yet his Lord asked after a moment of evaluating silence, very softly.

“Why, Master? You are perfect as you are,” Mairon purred, and relief flowed through him like a breeze.

“ _I could hurt you_ ,” Melkor observed, as he trailed his claws on Mairon’s cheek, in the lightest of caresses.

“It wouldn’t be really _hurting_.”

Feeling bold, Mairon traced with his fingertips the contours of a scale on the cheekbone.

“You should kiss me, Master,” he suggested.

And without being told twice, Melkor did, crushing his lips against Mairon’s in a bruising, demanding kiss, and he pressed the Maia against him, ready to devour him whole. His tongue invaded Mairon’s mouth, and Mairon let him, only fighting back to tease the fangs that were biting his lips.

When they parted, Mairon's lips were swollen. Melkor was looking at him with an all too familiar hunger and for a moment, Mairon lost himself again in the intensity of his Master’s stare. He barely registered he was sinking to his knees, his hand trailing against the hard abdomen – but where the scales were softer – and then more south, against another kind of hard flesh. Here the skin was like leather, already exhaling the promising scent of musk, and Mairon find himself nuzzling against it as his hands kept giving light, evaluating strokes along the hollow of his Master’s hips. He felt the strong thighs tensing up and an impatient rumble vibrating along it. He smiled.

“Worry not, Master, for I will ease you.”

Then he parted his lips and mouthed at the tip, licking and teasing, before taking all the length in his mouth. The weight and the frame of it felt a bit unfamiliar, but it was good nonetheless, and Mairon closed his eyes to let his instinct get the upper hand, slowly easing his throat to welcome his Master further. In the distance of his mind, he heard the thud of a tail hitting nervously the ground. _That won’t do it_ , he thought distractedly, and he let his hands slide down the hips to the back of the muscular thighs, soothingly.

Clawed hands landed on his head, possessive and demanding, wanting to set their own rhythm. Mairon submitted happily, humming his contentment. Melkor began to fuck his mouth and soon wet sounds echoed across the room, along grunts of pleasure. The hands on his hair became almost painful, and now Mairon could only grip the strong thighs in front of him.

Suddenly he felt his hair being pulled back, and Mairon followed, obedient as ever. Lifting his eyelids, he searched for Melkor’s eyes, looking for approval and directions. His Master was a sight, he thought then, and he revelled in the half-open mouth and the bare fangs, the black, bottomless pit of his wild pupils, and the gasping breath. For a brief moment, Mairon felt hypnotized by the way the perfectly sculpted bust in front of him inflated and deflated, stretching the intercostal scales and revealing the marble flesh under them.

“ _You should discard your robe now, if you value it,_ ” Melkor growled in a strained voice.

Without taking his eyes off his Master, Mairon slowly rose to his feet. His hand undid a clip and his belt, and soon his cloak fell, then his robe. Only his usual jewellery was dressing him, now. He was already bare feet.

Like a predator in front of its mesmerized prey, Melkor lift a hand to Mairon’s hair, a bit tousled now. Trailing down his fingers along the soft locks, he got his claws caught in the remains of the braid, and they undid it, knot by knot, until they came to the leather strap that held them together and stripped it. Mairon’s long, copper hair fell on his shoulders, and Melkor took a handful of seconds to admire his work.

“ _Yes, gorgeous_ ,” he approved.

Strange warmth spread through Mairon’s chest, different from the heat pooling in his guts, and his whole body grew heavier with sudden languor. His lips half-opened, wanting to let out his desire, and his longing for something... for something more, something he could neither tell, neither voice. Instead, he took a long breath, and tried to control his voice.

“Come, Master,” he said, and he took the clawed hand in his with no fear, and led the beast to the back of the room, to the bed they would share tonight.

As they approached, Melkor stopped and turned the Maia over to lift him, then to press him hard against his chest. Mairon locked his legs in the small of his Master’s back, breathless, already dizzy and light-headed. He pressed himself back and buried his face in the crook of Melkor’s throat, craving the burnt leather scent of the Vala, the rough contact of his skin, his taste of metal.

Melkor chuckled and laid him on the sheets, his appreciative eyes darkening further. Mairon gripped his neck and claimed his lips once again, fiercely, opening his legs to accommodate his lover. He wanted... he wanted...

But delirious thoughts were cut short when his wrists were grasped and smashed on the sheets, almost painfully. Melkor’s hold was so tight it felt like Mairon’s bones would break, would his Master tightened his hold a little bit more. Claws were suddenly digging into his skin, and tiny drops of blood began to bead.

“ _Not so fast, little one_ ”, the Vala crooned again. “ _You have been distracting me, but I have not forgotten_.”

“What?” Mairon asked, rather stupidly.

Obsidian eyes anchored themselves into ember ones, cold and imperious.

“ _What were you thinking when I arrived_?”

The tone was soft but Mairon knew perfectly it was not because Melkor felt gentle and understanding all of a sudden.

“ _Do not say it is nothing_ ,” Melkor insisted in a murmur, his teethes only millimetres away from Mairon’s lips. “ _I do recognize a lie. Or a concealment_.” He dug his knee into one of Mairon’s hip, rubbing his razor-sharped scales against the thin skin. The Maia hissed with pain.

“ _You know I cannot accept it. Not from one of my servant… and especially not from you,_ ” Melkor continued, now brushing his nose along Mairon’s neck, just below his ear, to coax him better. The touch was soft, and it dragged out a shiver from the Maia, but Melkor’s knee was still digging painfully into Mairon’s hip, and his other hand was scratching his side. “ _I demand the most utterly commitment from my vassals, you know that. I ask for their loyalty and their skills, but for their mind and their soul as well. I cannot have them hold thoughts from me... It would be disobedience_.”

“My Lord, if I may,” Mairon tried carefully, “keeping you from futile thoughts hardly feel like disobedience to me. I did not try to distract you from it. I just did not want to bore you.”

“ _Liar_ ,” Melkor growled, and suddenly his wandering hand was on Mairon’s throat, constricting it, and his face was so near that Mairon could only see the pools of his black, angry eyes. Cold fear overflowed the Maia. A fundamental part of him wanted to whine his submission, but his entire being recoiled from that idea, and he wanted as much to hiss with anger and defiance. He should have stayed calm, but despite himself his body was jerking against the heavy weight of his Master, in a vain attempt to free himself. Claws dug into his flesh even more cruelly. Mairon stood his ground, refusing to look away.

“ _You will always make it difficult, don't you, Mairon? Even there you took your time. Why fighting what you are mean to be, again? Why denying yourself what you want?”_

For a brief moment, the anger withdrew, as the black eyes, and a gleam of amusement appeared in their depths. The thumb on Mairon’s throat released some of its pressure and became more caressing. The Maia could not breathe properly, but he held himself still. Breathing could wait. It was nothing compared to the uneasiness that grew inside his chest, under the scrutiny of the knowing look of his Master.

“ _So much pride,_ ” Melkor smirked. “ _You take so much pride about your independence. Why is that, I wonder?_ ”

And, even softer, in a confidential murmur:

“ _Behind all that pride, could you be hiding fear?_ ”

The abrupt lurch in Mairon’s chest had nothing to do with the diminishing quality of his oxygen. His Master smiled in triumph.

“ _Yet you know_ _I will always demand you the most abject submission, little one..._ ”

Slowly, the dread faded away, and Mairon could almost breathe again. Melkor was mistaken in his appreciation of Mairon’s reluctance, or more exactly about its field of application, but the Maia could not bring himself to correct him – maybe because air was still lacking in his lungs, or maybe because he knew that the wall of defiance Melkor had built was an impassable one. Despite the relief provided by the misunderstanding, it pained Mairon. How could his Master doubt his allegiance? Before he had the time to interject, the impatience of Melkor took the initiative, as always.

“ _Now don’t hide from me. Tell me what is in your mind. **Speak**!_”

Resisting Melkor’s Will was like trying to confront a tidal wave while standing in moving sands. Impossible. Despite himself, and it enraged him, words flew from Mairon’s mouth, extracted by brutal force:

“I… fine! I was thinking about Almaren!”

Even if this was not about Almaren, not exactly. Hidden, unsuspected thoughts threatened to spill over from his lips, too, but he managed to contain them – although barely. But saying what could be considered as the truth eased the pressure on his mind – after all, he had been thinking of Almaren – and his answer had been startling enough to disrupt his Master. Something flicked in Melkor’s eyes, swiftly, before it settled back on anger, stronger than ever. The growls deepened. The pain in Mairon’s wrists became excruciating.

“ _Do you want to go back?_ ” Melkor asked, his voice low now, and how so very cold, all of a sudden.

“Of course not,” Mairon quickly explained, before he was reduced to pieces – because this would be how it would end, no? “I was only thinking about how my existence was miserable back there. I told you, _Master_. You have my allegiance.”

“ _Do I? Already you had betrayed a master before._ ”

Was this what it was all about? Appalled, Mairon tried to rise to face his Master better.

“Is it betraying when you have been placed in the service of the wrong master in the first place?” he asked, vehemently, before trying to settle his nerves with – finally – a long breath.

“ _But when I asked for you, you did not come,_ ” Melkor accused. “ _For many years you denied yourself to me.”_

 _And I could never forgive you for it_ went unspoken, but hung heavy between them.

Mairon closed his eyes briefly, trying to avert the unexpected weight of culpability, a feeble reminder of what he had felt then, when he was still working under Aulë’s orders. The bitterness that had haunted him all evening returned, harsher, and the burn of shame replaced the long forgotten heat of lust in the pit of his stomach.

“Master, forgive me,” he pleaded in a breath. “It took me years to understand that I was not made to serve the Great Smith, and those were tormenting years. Things were not clear back then, I had doubts.”

“ _And you still have._ ”

This time, Mairon’s voice came out firm.

“No, no more, my Lord. Back then, at the beginning of everything… I perfectly heard your Song – everyone did. And like many others, I was struck by it, but not because I found it appalling or offensive. I think… I may have understood it, at least a part of it. And never have I forgotten those notes, even when I worked in the service of Aulë. But when we entered Eä, I lacked… _perspective_. And maybe at that time I was – _and_ _the words burnt his lips_ – weak.

How much he had wanted the admiration of the others, back then, and the approval of the greater spirits! Those words felt like the most intimate thoughts he had ever share with Melkor: but shame and bitterness were giving way to a greater feeling, one that made his chest burnt with passion.

“If this path is wrong, I’d rather be doomed here, where I belong, than rot in Valinor, more and more alien to myself as the days go by. How many times should I pledge myself for you to believe me?”

Somehow, Melkor’s hold on his wrists had weakened, and Mairon had been able to free himself: not to roll far away from the angry Vala, but to frame his scowling face in his hands, holding it in front of him. The obsidian eyes were drilling into his, not so angry as wary now, seeking for the truth. Melkor’s own doubts were more painful to Mairon than the rough manhandling. He pressed his forehead against his Master’s, offering his eyes, the gateway to his soul, and opened his mind even more than he had done before.

“You worry that I may distance myself from you, or even walk away. But you do not understand, my Lord. I could not bear to be away from you. _I adore you_. How could I even be thinking about going to Valinor? To do _what_? Executing the mere errands of Aulë for the rest of my existence? Ignoring the vast possibilities of this world? No, I cannot. The light of their lamps or trees would only blind me. I am only enticed to the dark fire of your soul, and I bind myself to it gladly, because it is the only blaze that can sustain mine. Deprive me of it and I would be smothered, reduced to nothing; I would better return to the ether. You want everything from me? My Lord, you already have it!”

Like a hurricane, Melkor’s mind rushed into his, avidly looking at everything, examining Mairon’s every thought and doubt, exposing all the aching nerves – his feeling of humiliation in front of this irrepressible, unstoppable need of Melkor, of his full attention, of his whole being, while Mairon would have wanted to stand alone and proud, willing to blindly serve a worthy leader, but not to submit so pathetically to a heartless lover.

_And yet you want me to do both!_

It was painful, and tears came to his eyes, but before a whimper escaped his lips, Melkor crushed his mouth against his own. Mairon held onto his face, then grabbed a handful of horns, of hair, whatever he could reach and hold in order to keep his balance.

_I only want you._

They kissed hard, again and again, until it hurt, until Mairon’s lips were swollen anew by the insistency of Melkor’s fangs.

“ _Stupid, proud little Maia_ ,” Melkor snarled into his skin, but his words held no bites in them, not anymore. “ _Swearing he gives everything to me, but keeping his most intimate thoughts for himself. Selfish, ungrateful Maia._ ”

They rolled on the bed, until Mairon was once more pinned between the sheets and the heavy weight of his Master. Claws were relentlessly raking over his arms and his sides in too eager caresses, but soon enough the assault turned more gentle, and morphed into the languid embrace of lovers. Melkor brushed his nose against Mairon’s neck, his extremity still cold from the outside but his breath hot and soft against the golden skin.

“ _Is this what you fear so much, little one? Could you be afraid that I won't treat you well if you give yourself to me that intimately?_ _I won't hurt you, Mairon, not if you are truly mine.”_

It was said as a confidence.

It could only be a lie, of course.

Mairon knew this with a sense of absolute, deep-rooted certitude, the kind he had sometimes, because somehow his soul had sensed it when his mind had not. Hearing these words spoken in earnest furrowed his stomach. They hurt, because he felt raw, and would have wanted to believe them so badly. But he knew the truth, when Melkor did not.

The Vala moved and his beautiful, terrible eyes locked on Mairon’s again, their icy brightness far more radiant and blinding than the hypnotic glimmer of the embers in the hearth. They wanted him so ardently to accept this reassurance, like they had wanted Mairon to follow, years ago – but not so blatantly, so unguarded as they were now.

 _I cannot accept this_ , Mairon thought, yet he was already half immersed in it, and he did not have really a choice, didn’t he? Panic rose once again in his chest, like a dreadful wave.

“ _Mairon_ ,” Melkor softly called, leaning in, and no, this was a low blow. Mairon could not protest, nor could he put the distance needed between them, not when these strong arms were closing so carefully around him. Melkor was kissing him again, his eyes open and attentive, and Mairon was kissing him back while staring at him too, as an enthralled prey. If it seemed dangerous one second ago, it did not seem that important anymore, and Mairon just gripped his Master more tightly before accepting his capitulation, his whole body going limp and pliant, skin tingling and hot all the same.

This time, Mairon could not stop himself from whining pitifully through the kiss; but he was hard again, and he wanted to press himself against his Master until all distance was gone, maybe even until his total and complete absorption. It would have been easier to surrender then, if he had been able to dissolve into a greater Will. Melkor bit the crook of his neck, as if he wanted to take a mouthful, but instead he sucked on the wound until Mairon began to scratch his back with a cry. Then Melkor did it again, and again, on Mairon’s shoulder, on his breast, on his ribs, as if he had heard Mairon’s thoughts, and was gracefully granting his wish by eating him alive. Sharp scales were cutting everywhere into his flesh, but Mairon could not care less, too occupied to stroke the silky length of the black mane – or to press the Vala’s head more firmly against his chest, he did not really know.

A clawed hand closed around his cock and he arched his back with a moan. Fingers grazed the hot skin, lightly, before they began to stroke it. Mairon could have contained his gasps if it had not been for the wicked tongue lapping now at his navel, then lower, outlining the hollow of his hip – not the bruised one, where Melkor had dug his punishing knee before, and which was still radiating pain. With great difficulties, Mairon fought the urge to make a cage of his legs to trap the Vala here, against him. He was not enough of a fool to ignore that he could not do it, that he could not contain the greatest Power of Arda and keep it all for himself, even when his whole being was longing for it. Melkor was right: he was only a stupid Maia after all.

But for now, Mairon was at the centre of his Master’s attentions, and everything felt voluptuous. He cried of frustration when Melkor licked only the base of his cock before withdrawing himself, and then he cried of shock and delight when he felt that silver tongue nudging lower, between the hot cleft of his cheeks. One of his legs was held up by a firm hand, exposing him mercilessly to his Master’s ministrations. For all the finesse of his invading kisses, the Vala made up with bruising and possessive strokes, leaving new trails of bloody cuts on Mairon’s trembling thighs.

All Mairon could do was lay still and let himself being taken apart, except for his hands which were helplessly digging into Melkor’s scalp in an attempt to anchor himself – or maybe to keep Melkor from continuing, because it was too much. He tried to close his free leg around the strong expanse of his Master’s back, but then he could not resist rubbing it against the steel skin, bristling with scales, and that friction hurt – deliciously. He was reduced to a quivering mess, more and more unable to keep shameful sounds that sounded like crying escaping from his mouth. They escalated quickly into full moans when damp and sticky fingers replaced the hot tongue, brushing and grazing delicately against his most intimate parts. Melkor took his time, indifferent to his cries and pleas, and now silly words were rushing out of Mairon’s lips, silly words of imploration and adoration. He distractedly noticed a wet feeling on the back of his leg – he had given in to the urge to rub it against Melkor’s back. It did not matter. All his body felt sticky from sweat and blood intertwined, and oversensitive – pleasure and pain merging together in the most delicious, delirious way. It felt good, because his horizons had narrowed to the borders of his own skin, and to the mesmerizing black abyss of Melkor’s eyes, who had lift himself to nestle in Mairon’s embrace. Gone were doubts, regrets and guilt, or the bitter taste of having none of it. 

The Maia had loosened his grip on his Master’s hair, and now he was revelling in holding him, all this brutal force in the crook of his arms. He ignored the sharp stings of thorns digging into his forearms, absorbed in the felicity of having Melkor here, and his hands lost themselves into the hard contours of his face, the outline of an ear, the angle of his jaw. Melkor let out a pleasured sigh, then lifted and trapped Mairon’s thighs against his own shoulders, holding him here without giving him a chance to escape, but coaxing him in the sweetest ways. His hips moved slowly forward to take him, inch by inch.

His cock felt like a furnace. It took Mairon’s breath away, the weight and length of his Master inside him. It stung a bit, like always, because Melkor was huge everywhere, and Mairon’s thighs were crushed by his heavy body and his hard skin, his _density_. But like all good predators, Melkor knew patience, and he waited until Mairon could let out a breath. And then he moved, just a little, shallow thrusts that eased his way in and had Mairon’s heels digging in his back. Heavy breathing turned into enticing little pants as heat built between them until it became suffocating.

By the time Melkor began to move in earnest, pain had dissolved into confused pleasure, and soon the pleasure did not come only from the hot pressure on Mairon’s insides, but from everywhere too, along Mairon’s thighs, arms and torso, where his skin met his Master’s sharp-edged scales. He wanted desperately to arch harder against Melkor, longing for more heat, more pleasure or more pain, whatever, more of this thickness against his guts. The friction against his thighs was driving him crazy, the sharp thrusts marking new cuts in his sensitive flesh – never had his thighs been so damp, so wet, from sweat, blood, semen, he did not know. He was whining, and he gripped once again Melkor’s mane, his only anchor, begging for more, more, more.

“My Lord,” he moaned, “please, please...”

Something about his despair must had moved his Master, for his lower back was all of sudden lifted from the mattress, and soon he was bent in half, shaken by a far more violent assault. The hard cock of his lover plunged into him much deeper than before, each shove hitting perfectly right. Mairon could only make little shocked gasps that escaped his breathless lungs, as he felt his whole body tightening around his Master’s length, clenching at each wave of ravaging pleasure.

He felt delirious, and he locked his arms more tightly around Melkor’s shoulders, ignoring the cruel thorns that scattered the Vala’s strong arms. In a moment of boldness, he reached for his Master’s neck and pulled it against him to offer his feverish throat to Mekor’s devouring kisses, all bites and teethes.

“ _Little one... delicious_ ,” Melkor rumbled against his skin, just below his ear, and it triggered shivers that travelled down all along Mairon’s spine, making his back arching in desire.

“Back then, I wanted... _oh_ , I wanted...” he babbled, rather incoherently.

“ _I know what you want, little one. What you need._ ”

And it was true. Melkor had always known what Mairon wanted. Or _needed_. It was such an abject word, and Mairon did not want to think about it, about its implications: but Melkor had never cared about Mairon’s own standards.

“ _All your desires, even the deepest, the most shameful. The ones you don't want to acknowledge. You shall have them,_ ” Melkor murmured against his ear. “ _If you truly belong to me.”_

“Yes, yes, you have me, since the beginning... until the end, you will have me.”

At this very moment, Mairon won’t have mind if his Master had reclaimed his due in kind and had started to chop off bits of his flesh with his bare teethes. Here, crushed by the force that was claiming him, by the raw strength of Melkor’s hips in motion, his skin carved by the claws, the teethes, the scales, even the sensitive skin of his length trapped against his belly and the hard lines of Melkor’s abdomen, the world had reduced to a pin that could not contain it anymore. His entire being escaped him. It should have been terrifying, but it only felt good. His place had been here all along, from the very beginning, and finally, finally, after all these years, these centuries, these ages, he was finally coming back to his right place.

Tides of lust were taking him apart, boiling his blood, his brain, his soul, everything. He was far too hot, he could not even breathe. He felt liquid. Was he still in his Eldarin _fana_ , or did Melkor had ripped him open to extract his raw, scorching core? Mairon could not tell, and after all he did not care. _Maybe it’s the blood_ , a distant voice told him, but he could not listen, overwhelmed by the deep growls of his Master, and his own breathless moans – no, cries. As he had surrendered himself to _He who arises in might_ , centuries ago, he surrendered to pleasure and bliss.

And then he was gone.

\---

Long after, or at least that was what he thought, Mairon came back to his senses with the feeling of something cold, wet, and rough, slipping and coiling around one of his ankles. Fighting the exhaustion that threatened to overthrow him, he cracked an eye open, only to see his Master sitting on his heels, one of Mairon’s leg lifted by a strong hand. A black, snake-like tongue was consciously licking the beads of blood that was still running down his skin. Melkor noticed him and a predatory smile spread across his face.

 _“Sweet, precious little one_ ,” he crooned, obviously very pleased with himself.

Slowly, he continued with his task, passing his raspy tongue over Mairon’s calf before descending down his leg, cleaning up all the cuts the scales and claws had left during their coupling.

Maybe Mairon should have been scared, or at least worried, after the turmoil he had felt, and in front of such a hungry god, obviously never completely sated, even after having been offered everything. Strangely, the vision was yet mostly comforting – and from the pinch Mairon felt in his lower abdomen, quite arousing. He definitively should not have felt _safe;_ but he could only moan weakly before falling back against the cushions. A deep calm had invaded his mind, which was now blissfully blank. There were no doubts anymore, no painful memories to harass him. He only craved slumber.

At Melkor’s insistence, he opened his legs and felt his Master nudging his face against him, licking him here, where all his skin was still feverish and hypersensitive. A pleased, heavy sigh escaped him.

“ _Tired already, little one? Too bad_ ,” Melkor hummed, as if he was not coming back from a few days of global wrecking.

Mairon wanted to apologize, and to promise he would make up for it later, but all energy had left him. He could not even worry. He should have, though. There was a beast lying against him, and he was in his nest. But for now he just felt good. All his limbs were heavy with pleasure. The cuts were burning a little, yes, but that felt good, too. It grounded him. His rebellious eyes were shutting close despite himself. He heard a low laugh, and felt his Master settling back against him, his hot breath on his cheek, his heavy and menacing body suddenly a confortable blanket. Mairon reached for him, his arm loosely closing around the muscular back. Fingers as light as feathers delicately brushed his jaw. There were no claws anymore.

Mairon fell asleep on the feelings of sweet touches, hands stroking his hair, drawing the contours of an ear, exploring the high of his cheekbones and the hollow of his throat.

Far away, someone was humming a little tune of happiness and satisfaction, and it echoed under his skin in tiny lappings, as peaceful and soothing as the water of a cool, calm underground lake.

**Author's Note:**

> And then Mairon woke up to Melkor eating his disgusting breakfast in bed. Yew. Melkor is a thoughtful lover but he definitely lacks of bed manners.
> 
> So. I am not completely satisfied with this because the result felt a bit… disjointed, and despite my best efforts the syntax still seems weird sometimes, but I'm glad I finished it anyway. I can only progress, right?


End file.
